


This Feeling Follows Me Wherever I Go

by stoprobbers



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, High School, Idiots in Love, Music, Post-Season/Series 02, Ridiculous, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 07:04:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14515020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers/pseuds/stoprobbers
Summary: Kissing her is easy. The rest of it, that's harder.





	This Feeling Follows Me Wherever I Go

Kissing her is easy. The rest of it, that's harder.

He has a reputation for being a bit more of an outsider than he really is. He does have friends; maybe not many and maybe not close ones, but there are people at school and at work he talks to, laughs with, shares interests with. And, of course, there is Nancy, who has somehow wormed her way inside of him without even trying.

But he _is_ a loner, has distanced himself from his peers for protection, self-preservation, and out of stubbornness. He knows he has a bad dad and he knows his way of dealing with that vulnerability is hiding, building walls and barriers. And he's known that was never going to make something like falling in love easy. It's always been pretty clear.

But it's only been pretty clear in the abstract; now he's got a girl he's pretty sure is crazy about him and she wants to know what movies he likes and what his favorite records are and he's _terrified._

So he falls back on kissing her, and if it just so happens that kissing her is extremely nice, well, that's just a lucky coincidence.

But she gets under his skin. It's weird, the sensation of her there, peeling back layers one by one in a place no one else has ever been. What's stranger is that he keeps waiting to feel exposed, but the feeling never comes.

+++

She's straddling him in the backseat of his car, condensation gathering on the windows and a mix tape playing on the stereo. It is winter but he's turned off the engine to save gas; they'll generate their own heat.

He's got his hands in her back pockets, squeezing in the same rhythm as her hips grinding down on his lap. She tastes salty and minty all at the same time, and her hair – just past her shoulders now – brushes against his cheeks as it makes a curtain around where their mouths are fused together. She's got her hands in his hair, tugging, moving his face however she wants, and he's learning how much he likes just tipping his head back against the headrest and letting her take control.

She makes a soft noise into his mouth and he can't stop his hips from surging up into hers. Wonders if this is the right time to let go of her ass and work on taking off her shirt.

She takes him by surprise when she pulls back. Opens his eyes to find her looking down at him, mouth red and swollen, both of them breathing hard. There's the barest crinkle between her eyes, like she's thinking.

"Who is this?" she asks. She may as well be speaking Chinese.

"Huh?"

"This," she says shaking her head towards the front of his car but all he see is the column of her neck and all he can think about is how much he'd like to leave a mark there. She seems to catch his distraction and laughs. "This _song_."

"Oh," he manages and blinks a couple times, trying to clear his head. It only kind of works. "Uh."

He has to pause, listen closely, try not to think about how there's a heady scent around them, the smell of her skin and their arousal. After a moment he manages to latch onto the bass line, then the guitars, then the melody. Oh. Right.

"It's The Psychedelic Furs," he says, wonders how he can even form the words. "'The Ghost In You.'"

"It sounds familiar." She sounds contemplative, lets go of his hair and lets her hands run down either side of his neck, come to rest on his chest. He slides his hands up to her waist in response, wonders how the hell she can focus on the music when he's quite sure she can feel how much he wants her. "Have you played this for me before?"

"Hmm." He thinks about it. "I put it on a few of my mix tapes this year, I guess. Why?"

She smiles down at him like he's said something dumb.

"I like to know what you listen to," she declares and abruptly pulls her sweater up over her head. He locks onto her bra - nothing fancy, just ballet pink cotton, but it's been the star of several of his fantasies since November – and almost misses what she says next. "I like you."

He looks back up at her face in time to catch her tongue poke out the corner of her mouth, to see her reach behind her and undo the hook, to watch the straps fall down her shoulders.

He wants to say _I like you, too,_ or perhaps something even stronger, but Nancy's bare skin is inches away and there are much better things for him to do with his mouth.

+++

They choose which house to go to after school based on their little brothers, and this is the most he's had anyone over to his, ever.

Will seems to want to stick closer to home, even though physically he's in much better shape than the year before. Maybe it's because coming home to a house full of kids seems to make their mother happy, the relief evident on her face. He's got an Atari and the boys are more than happy to claim they're doing homework while actually playing video games.

The Byers home becomes the winter's social hub. If that means him and his mom have to clean up extra plates and glasses, neither of them mind.

Jonathan leaves the door open partway as he and Nancy spread out their assignments on top of his comforter, just in case something goes sideways, puts on a record to buy them a _little_ privacy. She curls into his side with her physics textbook and worksheet on her lap, chewing the end of her pencil, and he wonders if she can feel his heartbeat speed up.

He still hates doing homework, but it's easier with Nancy there.

After a while he gets up to stretch his legs, grab them a couple sodas, and surreptitiously check on his little brother, and when he comes back Nancy has set her homework aside and is looking intently as his "The Evil Dead" poster. He closes the door all the way this time.

"Is this your favorite movie?" she asks as he passes her a can and sits back down on his bed. He opens his soda and takes a drink, thinking.

"I don't know," he says after a minute. "It's really good."

"Is it scary?"

He gives her a long look. "It's a horror movie."

Nancy rolls her eyes at him. "Yeah but is it scary or is it just gross?"

"What do you mean by gross?"

"You know, lots of blood and gore and stuff."

He can't help but grin at her. "There's _lots_ of blood."

"Ew," she crinkles her nose in disgust and he thinks, for at least the hundredth time that day, about kissing her. "No thank you."

She lifts her chin in the air primly and he laughs.

"Oh, you're too good for gory movies, is that it?"

"No, I just like _good_ horror movies. I have very _sophisticated_ taste."

"Oh yeah, like what?" There's a fluttering in his stomach as he sets his soda down on the night table behind him and scoots across the bed so they're closer together. It's not that he's unused to flirting with Nancy, it's just that now it happens easier, and so much more often, and typically ends in kissing and more.

Really, it's a delightful turn of events.

"Like 'Psycho', or 'The Stepford Wives'," she says primly, drawing her knees up under her chin while also, somehow, shifting closer to him at the same time. He wonders, not for the first time, whether she did something like gymnastics when she was a girl. "Or 'Halloween'."

"Hey!" His jaw drops as she starts to giggle. "'Halloween' is all blood too!"

He reaches for her, not sure exactly what his revenge will be, but she catches his hands and draws him towards her at the same moment she leans in and next thing he knows his lips are on hers.

They shift together, awkwardly at first, until he can get her to lie down and move into the cradle of her thighs. Paper crinkles underneath them, their homework forgotten, and he hears a pencil snap but resolves not to do anything about it unless she complains. Gets lost, instead, in the feeling of her fingers running through his hair, down his neck, over his shoulders and down his sides. Of her legs wrapping around his hips to draw him closer.

He teases her between kisses, accusing her of snobbery as he nips at her neck and leaves a mark on her collarbone. She laughs and calls him pretentious and bites down on his lower lip as she slides her hands into his back pockets and squeezes.

He uses one hand to unbutton her jeans and focuses on moving it to where she's most slick as she lists movies she's sure are better than "The Evil Dead."

He doesn't hold back his smirk when she suddenly loses her place.

"You're so stubborn," he says, leaning his forehead against hers as he eases his fingers into her and finds a rhythm. She lets out a shaky sigh and moves her hands to his face, holding him in place as she tips her chin up to kiss him again. "What were you saying, now?"

"Jonathan, please…" Her hips move impatiently, and he grins and gives in.

When she trembles and breathes hard through her nose underneath him, he feels something heady and powerful and _real_ rush through him.

She is languorous in the aftermath, arms loose around his neck as she kisses him sloppily and he eases his hand out of her pants. He can't help but press his hips into hers, his own longing more than evident behind his zipper.

She's just reached down to palm him when there are three loud bangs on his bedroom door and they both spring apart, breathing hard and hearts pounding as much from alarm as from desire.

"Nancy!" Mike's voice comes through the wood. "Dad's here!"

" _Jesus_ ," she breathes, placing a hand over her heart before calling back in a voice steadier than he thinks he'd ever be capable of, "Just a minute!"

"Sorry," she says, turning to him, and she's flushed and her hair is a mess and Jonathan think about how this might be his favorite look on her, bright eyes and pink skin and swollen mouth, almost as good as the way her jaw sharpens when she's getting ready to face down a monster. She leans in and kisses him twice, keeping him from saying three words he's be swallowing since way, way too soon after they started dating. "I'm so sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"It's fine," he chuckles, chasing her lips as she refastens her jeans and starts shoving things into her backpack. "I'll pick you up in the morning?"

"Bright and early," she sighs and pulls two pieces of broken pencil out from under her butt. "Uh, here?"

"Gee, thanks," he laughs, tosses them onto his night table, and climbs off the bed, trying not to let her see just how much he's trembling. He can still feel arousal singing in his blood and surreptitiously adjusts himself inside his jeans. It's not exactly comfortable, but it's better.

By Nancy's smirk, he thinks she may have noticed anyway.

She puts her hand over his on the doorknob to stop him from turning it, presses her entire body against his as she rises up on her toes to press one last kiss to his mouth. He hugs her tightly, keeping her there a beat longer than necessary.

"See you tomorrow," she says against his mouth and smiles at him as she slips out of the room. He hears her saying goodbye to his mom, arguing with Mike as they walk out the Byers' front door. He zones out for a second, staring past the world at nothing in particular behind it just to revel the feelings coursing through his blood, and when he blinks and looks up Will is standing in front of him, eyebrows raised and shit-eating grin on his face.

Jonathan rolls his eyes and steps out of his room, shooing Will with a hand towards the kitchen.

"Mom, you need help with dinner?"

+++

Nancy's house is always warm and her room is soft pink and when they go there after school they listen to the radio.

She has a collection of records and a turntable, but she never plays them and he hasn’t figured out quite how to ask why. If it has something to do with Barb or maybe it's just an old collection that she's grown out of.

She finds excuses to keep him away from it, which just deepens the mystery. If they're studying she'll call him back to the bed for help with flashcards. He's only able to flip through them in fits and starts, has discovered a rather predictable collection. Fleetwood Mac, Stevie Nicks, Blondie. In the middle, tucked between Linda Ronstadt and Joni Mitchell are a couple surprises –"Frampton Comes Alive!" and Patti Smith, "Easter."

When she comes back from the bathroom or the kitchen to find him crouching over the little wooden crate, she runs her hands through his hair, tugs on the strands to pull him back to his feet and then down to her mouth.

He lets himself be distracted but it only deepens his resolve to dig into the mystery of Nancy Wheeler's record collection. All she really projects about her taste in music is the a poster of Blondie on her wall, and all he knows about what she likes is that she never argues about what he puts on in the car, accepts the tapes he makes her and listens to them on her Walkman.

He thinks about it as he props the small throw pillows on Nancy's bed against her fancy metal footboard, lays back against them and stares at her bedroom walls instead of his history homework.

He tries to decipher the mess of books and knick-knacks on the white wicker hutch for a while, but there's too many and he's too far away to make out details. Plus, when he looks over that way her poster of Tom Cruise seems to stare at him, following his gaze. It's unnerving. So he trains his focus on the "Autoamerican" calendar instead, the way Debbie Harry's back is arched and the angle of the photograph. The contrast between dark dress and pale skin, concrete and brick and gray sky.

He knows that calendar, used to see it at Hawkins' only record store, and in the poster and stationary section of the general store when he'd visit his mom at work. It's not a new calendar; it came out when the album did, which makes it almost four years old. He wonders how Nancy got it, if it came with her album or if she sought it out herself, or if someone gave it to her. Barbara, maybe.

He's broken from his reverie when an eraser hits him in the chest. Nancy is smirking at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Should I be jealous?" she asks. He just blinks at her. "Of Debbie?"

"Well my only other option is Tom, can you blame me?"

She looks mightily offended by that.

"What are you trying to say about my Tommy—"

" _Your Tommy_??" He doesn't even know where to start.

"He radiates charm, and his hair is _fabulous_ , and his eyes sparkle like the sun—"

"They also follow you, have you ever noticed that? Do you ever feel him watching you as you're walking through your room—"

"And his face is just _the best_ face, I mean look at that, look at his beautiful face, Jonathan, have you ever seen a face so handsome—"

"I am _right here_." He gapes at her, no longer sure if he's faking offense or if he means it. She's laughing at him, sets her textbook aside and stretches out her side next to him, cheek on her hand. He can't help it, reaches for her and pulls her down for a kiss.

She keeps it chaste, much more chaste than he'd like, and he make a little dissatisfied noise when she pulls away.

"You're not really jealous of my Tom Cruise poster are you?"

"No," he grins at her, thinks about hiding it next time she's out of the room and seeing how long it'll take her to notice, just for fun. "You're not jealous of your Debbie Harry poster are you?"

"It's a calendar," she corrects and settles her head onto his shoulder so she can look at it too.

"It's an old calendar," he points out.

"I know," she says and doesn't say more. He strokes her hair and listens to "Careless Whisper" on the radio, just waits. It's a long moment before she speaks again. "Barb gave it to me.'

"Barb was a Blondie fan?" It's not really what he _means_ to say next, it's just what pops out. Barbara was always quiet, like him, but she seemed so much more… proper. He guesses maybe he wore his outsider status pretty proudly; he should know as well as anyone not to judge a proverbial book by its cover.

"Oh yeah. Her dad travels for work, he used to bring her back records and singles, and calendars, stuff like this. That's how she got this one for me. We used to sit up in her room and sing along to her records all night long, do our makeup like Debbie, talk about dyeing our hair blonde," Nancy sounds wistful and he can hear the smile in her voice. "I think she had a crush on her, honestly."

"Oh," he says, files that bit of information away to examine closer later. "Well. Can't blame her."

"Oh _really_?"

"Yeah I mean look at her, she radiates cool, and her hair is _fabulous_ —"

"Oh, shut up!" She smacks his stomach with the back of her hand and he doesn't give her any warning, just rolls on top of her and swallows her shriek. "Jonathan!"

She's gotten into a habit of scraping her short nails against his scalp as she runs her fingers through his hair. She's forever messing with his hair, and it makes him wonder what she sees instead of the bowl cut his mom gives him and his brother both, that he's been desperate to avoid for years, since he started having dreams about girls and the things he'd like to do with them. It sends goosebumps from the tips of his toes to the very top of his head, makes him press his hips into hers without thinking.

When he pulls away she has her hands on his cheeks and her eyes are sparkling, but there's something sad in their blue depths.

"You miss her." It's not a question. Nancy bites her lip and nods.

"All the time."

Her response clears his head a little bit, enough to bring the driving beat in the background to the fore of his brain. He realizes the radio is now playing "Call Me," as if their conversation has summoned the band in question; a pop music séance. He climbs off her, off the bed entirely, and holds out a hand to her. She sits up, and he thinks she's really, _really_ cute when confused.

"What are you doing?"

"Dance with me," he says, curling the fingers of his outstretched hand to beckon her.

" _Dance_ with you? You dance?"

No, he doesn’t, not really. He's avoided every school dance like the plague, and even when he and Will let loose in his bedroom it's something closer to headbanging than dancing. But the sadness in her eyes is clearing a bit and he just wants to hear her laugh, so if he has to humiliate himself to do so he's happy to.

"Doesn't everyone? Come on, Nance, dance with me. They're playing Blondie."

She cocks her head to the side, and when she catches the chorus a smile blooms across her face. He can feel his face stretch to match it as she climbs off the bed and take his hand.

Truthfully he doesn't know how to do much more than shuffle his feet to the beat and swing their arms back and forth to the rhythm but that seems to do enough for her. She takes the lead, spreads their arms wide and brings their chests together, then pushes him away and maneuvers opposite arms behind their heads before letting go of one of his hands, sliding the other over his shoulder and down his arm. He mirrors her instinctively, spins her in when he has her hand again.

He feels like an utter fool but she's laughing and singing along and as they dance in her bedroom he thinks he wants to tell her he loves her.

+++

Nancy wants to go to the city, just the two of them, and it's not that he doesn't want go also, it's that he's already made plans with Will and she doesn't seem to get that.

There's a second-run theater three towns over that they go to at least once a month, usually more, to see movies that never got to the Hawk, or that they missed, or that Will was deemed too young to see at the time. It's got "Bladerunner," which Will has been after since it came out and their Mom always denied him, so Jonathan makes him a deal that they'll go on Saturday night and doesn't know what to do when Nancy gets huffy about it.

She's not _mad_ , exactly, but she's definitely pouting and he doesn't understand why.

He tries to ask her, tells her he'll come over after the movie, but she just insists it's fine and refuses to meet his eyes and says something about getting together with Stacey, maybe having a sleepover. He wants to be huffy with her in return, but by that time he's pulled up in front of her house and she kisses him and gets out of the car, not even letting him walk her to the door.

So he and Will drive an hour away, get an absurd amount of popcorn, and he tries not to think about why it bothers him so much that Nancy was bothered in the first place.

It's the second time he's seen the movie but it still leaves him dizzy with questions about the nature of reality and consciousness, and in the car Will flips through local radio stations and they argue about passionately about whether or not Deckard is a Replicant the entire way home.

He wonders what Nancy thinks, if she has a theory. Wonders if she's seen "Bladerunner." Wonders if she'll see it with him if she hasn't.

They're almost home when Will puts his feet up on the dashboard and smiles over at him.

"Thanks, Jonathan," he says. "It's been a while since we've done this. I've missed it."

"Yeah," he replies with a smile, because it's true. "Me too."

"Was Nancy mad you blew her off for me?"

"I didn't blow her off."

"I mean, it is Saturday. That's, like, date night."

How the hell does his little brother know about date night?

"She wasn't mad," he answers and wonders if that's actually true. "Plus, we had plans. I'm not blowing _you_ off just because I'm dating Nancy."

Will is quiet as he turns onto their driveway.

"I just," he says eventually, just before Jonathan pulls into the spot next to his mom's little green car, "I don't want to get between you two, that's all. Like, I get it, and I'm not mad about it, and I don't want you to think that you have to… to… I don't need you to watch over me. You don't have to do that."

"What?" He's genuinely confused. "I'm not—Will, if you don't want to go to the movies you can just tell me—"

"No!" His brother whips around, wide-eyed. "No, that's not what I'm saying but, like, you can go to the movies with Nancy."

"I do go to the movies with Nancy."

"I mean, instead of me."

"No way." It just pops out of him, and he surprises himself with the honesty of it. "Will, you're still my best friend, you know that right?"

"You don't have to say that anymore."

"I'm not saying anything, I mean it. Where's this coming from, anyway?"

"I just want you to be happy," Will says and he's serious far beyond his years. It makes Jonathan's breath catch in his throat. "I like Nancy, and you _definitely_ like Nancy, and you deserve this, Jonathan. I don't want you to mess things up with her because you're worried about me."

It takes him a moment before he can find his words again. "Will, that's not—I'm _not_. You can't think like that. You're never going to be less important to me. And Nancy's important to me, but Will, you're my _brother_. Nothing ever changes that, ok? This isn't either or, it's both. Promise me you're not gonna think like that anymore, okay?"

He's holding Will's upper arm and he can feel how tight his grip his, but he can't seem to loosen it. It feels vitally important that his little brother understands this.

Will looks at him with the huge eyes he got from their mother, and then nods once, like he's made a decision.

"Okay, good," Will says and opens the passenger door. He pauses, halfway out of the car. "Uh, you coming?"

"No, I've gotta…" he trails off. Will smirks at him.

"Go to Nancy's?"

He manages to roll his eyes, to smirk back, to make his face look normal even as his mind spins and spins. "Yeah. Tell mom… something?"

Will just laughs as he closes the door.

The streets have no business being this empty before 10 p.m. on a Saturday, but Jonathan's glad for it as he drives to the Wheelers', foot heavy on the gas.

The house is mostly dark when he pulls up to the cul-de-sac curb, but the light in Nancy's room is on and he mentally crosses his fingers as he pulls himself up on the roof that she's there and not at Stacey's like she threatened.

When he gets to her window he can see her on the bed in a long nightshirt, reading, and lets out a small sigh of relief as he taps on the glass.

She practically falls off the bed in surprise and he has to bite his lip to stifle a laugh.

She shoots him a murderous look and swiftly locks her bedroom door before coming over to let him in. Offers a hand to help him inside even as she's glaring at him.

"You scared the crap out of me—"

He silences her with a kiss, just in case they end up properly fighting and he can't kiss her again tonight, but cold air is flowing in and she breaks it too soon, moving past him to shut the window.

"What's going on?" she asks, arms crossed over her stomach. She looks nervous.

"You can't be jealous of my brother."

"What?" Her eyebrows fly up and there is a distinctly offended note in her voice.

"Will asked me, when we were driving back, if you were mad at me, and Nance, you can't make my little brother feel bad that I'm hanging out with him."

"I _didn't_." Her lips press together and she looks away.

"He's a smart kid, he noticed. You've been annoyed with me all week and he noticed, and he's worried he's causing problems for us, and he _can't_ be worried about that."

It takes him a moment to realize the expression on her face is one of hurt, not anger.

"I wasn't _trying_ to do anything. I just wanted to spend Saturday night with my boyfriend, that's all," she says softly.

It's the first time he's heard her use that word and it makes him go lightheaded for a second, makes him want to giggle stupidly, makes him want to say the words he bites back almost constantly now. Instead he holds her shoulders lightly, tips his forehead down to touch hers.

"Me too," he says and bites his lip to keep from kissing her and getting distracted, leads her over to the bed so they can sit instead. "I want to spend Saturday night with you too. I want to spend _every_ night with you. But, Nance, Will is _so_ important to me. He's my little brother, he's my best friend."

"I know," she mumbles, looking away again. He touches her chin with his index finger, gently moves her face until she has to look at him again.

"No, you don't. This happened last year too, remember?" He raises his eyebrows at her as she frowns. "Look, I know you know my dad's an asshole, but when he lived with us it was even worse. And I had to protect Will from that. And then when he left and my mom fell apart, it was just the two of us against the world. He's my best friend, he's my partner in crime, and I _like_ hanging out with him. We go to the movies, we go to the record store, we take day trips; we always have. It's different than you and Mike, I know, but it's important to me. I _need_ you to understand that he's important to me."

"I do," she protests and holds a hand up to stop him from interrupting her. "Jonathan, I really do, okay? I'm sorry I made him feel bad. I didn't mean to. But I want to be important to you, too."

He grins, he can't help it. He's never seen Nancy like this before and knowing it's because of him makes something primitive and possessive swell deep in his gut.

"You _are_ important to me, Nancy, I—"

She cuts him off with her mouth and he wonders if she knew what he was about to say.

"I know you came over," she says against his lips and he realizes she didn't. "And I know I'm being stupid, I'm sorry. I really am. I don't know why I'm being so stupid."

 _I do_ , he wants to say as realization crashes over him. _And I'm in love with you, too_. But he doesn't say it, just kisses her deeper, pushes her onto her back against the mound of pillows behind her.

"I'm sorry I blew you off on date night," he murmurs as she pushes the jacket and flannel he forgot he was wearing off his shoulders. It falls with a thump to the floor beside her bed. "You can come to the movies with me and Will next time."

"It's okay," she giggles, tugging his t-shirt out of his jeans. "You can spend time with your brother, I won't be stupid anymore. Plus, you're such nerds, I don't want to watch your nerdy movies."

"Hey!" he pulls back and frowns at her. "We have talked about this, I have _impeccably_ good taste—"

He has more to say, more to argue, but she manages to pull off her night shirt while he's protesting and she's not wearing anything but underwear underneath and he forgets every word he's ever known.

"Jonathan, shut up," she says and reaches over to the lamp on her nightstand, efficiently twists it off. For a moment all he sees is darkness and then the glow of her pale skin takes shape, sharpens until he can see her smiling up at him in the moonlight, just before she runs her hands up the front of his shirt and around his neck. "And keep quiet, alright?"

She doesn’t give him a chance to reply.

+++

Valentine's Day hangs over him like a sword, a sword held by girls with hair sprayed perms at tables in the hallway that sell carnations to be delivered during class.

He _hates_ it. Who even decided that flowers and chocolates were the way to express love, anyway? Who decided you had to cut construction paper in the shape of a heart and glue fake lace to it and drop it in lockers as a way to show someone to care? For a holiday supposedly meant to mark love and care and other intangible feelings, it sure seems focused on crass consumerism.

He accidentally unloads this rant onto Steve next to his locker on the day before Valentine's Day, after the older boy catches him glaring at the carnation table. By the end of his tirade Steve is staring at him with his eyebrows raised to his hairline.

"Ooookay," Steve says slowly and Jonathan feels slightly embarrassed that their point of reference for this is actually the same girl. "I just asked how you've been but I mean, sure. This too."

"Sorry," Jonathan replies, rubbing a hand over his face in embarrassment.

Steve just shakes his head. "It's—it's really not that deep, man. Just get her some flowers and a card. It's just about showing you care."

"But how does a _card_ show I care? She's just gonna throw it away eventually."

"Well I don't know, _Jonathan_ ," Steve snaps and he winces. Any time Steve uses his first name is a bad sign. "I got her roses last year and she seemed fine, but you know, we _broke up_."

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

Steve sighs. "I know you didn't, Byers, but I don't know what to tell you. She—"

Jonathan wants to know what he's about to say, he really does, but Steve's mouth snaps shut and he plasters a big, fake smile on his face, and Jonathan realizes Nancy's walked up behind him.

"What are you two talking about?" she asks, sliding up to Jonathan's side and grabbing his hand tightly. She seems nervous.

"Your boyfriend's borderline communist thoughts on Valentine's Day," Steve answers with a smirk.

"What's that now," Nancy says at the same time Jonathan exclaims "Hey, that's not what I said at all!"

Steve rolls his eyes. "You used the words 'crass consumerism,' Byers. You actually said those words. Out loud."

He sputters and Nancy snickers and smiles up at him, something mischievous sparkling in her eyes, and oh god, he's so in love with her.

"Remember when my dad brought it up at dinner?"

He scoffs. He can't help it. "The red rose and the red carnation are historic symbols of the labor movement and socialism, you don't think it's ironic they've been taken and used for a holiday that embodies the height of capitalism?"

"Your dad survived that?" Steve sounds genuinely amazed. 

"Barely." Nancy stands a little straighter and he swears she looks proud. "My mom almost had to give him the Heimlich." 

Steve raises one eyebrow at him. "Maybe you should get her a hammer and sickle."

"Oh shut up," he groans right as Nancy says "Get her? Get who?" Steve laughs at them both and shuts his locker door.

"I wish you luck. Especially you," Steve points at Nancy. "But that's all I've got."

He offers a jaunty little salute before turning on his heel and heading away from them, down the hall.

Jonathan hopes he isn't as red as his face is hot when Nancy steps in front of him, Trapper Keeper daintily held against her chest.

"What is he talking about?" He tries to do what Steve did, turn away and start walking, but she moves with him, blocking his way. "Were you asking him for _advice_?"

"No," he tries. It's not a very good try.

"Liar." She takes a step closer. "Were you asking him for advice about _me_?"

" _No_ ," he says and it's not a lie this time. "It's nothing, Nance, we were just talking."

"You and Steve don't just talk." She's eyeing him closely but the bell rings and when he moves to go to class she follows. "You're blushing, you know."

"Shut up."

"You are."

"Has anyone ever told you you're really annoying?"

"Mike tells me every day," she says simply and lets it drop as they turn left into their English class.

Still, she keeps giving him weird looks in the classes they share, and when he passes her in the hallway. By the time he's meeting her at his car after school he can feel the looks prickling the back of his neck even when she's not there.

She is there, though, by his car. She's also not alone. She and Mike are standing shoulder-to-shoulder, both leaning in towards Dustin, Max and Lucas, who are leaning in as well. They're arguing passionately about something. Will is sitting on his trunk, backpack on his lap and sketchbook out, scribbling away at something.

He wants to dig his camera out of his bag, take a picture, but he knows as soon as he does so they'll notice he's there and break the tableau. Instead he slows his walk slightly, commits it to memory.

He's glad he did because as soon as he's a couple feet away Nancy, her brother, and Dustin and Lucas whip around and shout at him, in eerie union, "Tell them!"

He stops in his tracks. Max looks utterly bewildered. Will cracks up and almost falls off the trunk of his car.

Four pairs of eyes look expectantly at him.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Four mouths open to argue and he holds up his hand. "I also don't _want_ to know."

They return to arguing. He moves to the trunk, shooing Will off it so he can put his bag inside, reaches automatically for Nancy's too. She passes it to him without missing a word.

"Is this your way of asking for a ride home?" he asks his little brother, who's tucking his notebook back into his backpack.

"Mom called, she has to cover a shift tonight," Will shrugs and looks up at him hopefully. "Can I go hang out at Mike's?"

It's too many people for his car but they cram in. Nancy presses close to his side, Will squeezes between her and the door. The other four pile in the back and Jonathan's glad they're all so skinny. The drive home is filled with loud opinions on his mix tape and spirited arguments about whether his taste is "weird" or "cool," but Nancy rests her head on his shoulder and he finds he doesn’t really mind.

The kids tumble out of the car the second he pulls up to the curb outside the Wheelers', a flurry of bouncing backpacks and claims for first go on the Atari, and Nancy moves to follow but he grabs her elbow, keeps her in the car.

"Actually, I was thinking we could go back to my house?"

"But we're already at mine?" Nancy's brow furrows like when she's trying to solve a problem. He tries his hardest to only roll his eyes a little.

"My mom won't be home until seven at the earliest. And Will is here."

"Yeah, and you're his ride home."

He smirks at her and waits. Her eyes go wide when realization crashes over her and she leans away from him only long enough to grab the passenger door and slam it closed.

"Step on it," she says.

He locks the front door, locks his bedroom door too just in case, and puts on his favorite Bowie mix tape, turns it up much louder than he can ever get away with when anyone else is home. Loud enough to mostly cover the sound of his voice singing along as he peels off Nancy's layers, as she peels off his.

She's told him before she likes his voice, catching him singing or humming along in the car, but he's not about to go toe to toe with Bowie for her approval when there are better things he can do with his mouth. That she can do with hers.

She's humming along to "Space Oddity," too, and he'd compliment her on her voice in return except she's got her lips wrapped around the most sensitive part of him and every note is sending tingles from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head.

He screws his eyes shut, bites his lip and fists his hands in his sheets in a desperate attempt to keep his hips from bucking up in a way that will be _very_ unpleasant for her. He feels her giggle more than hears it, and when one of her fingers slides gently lower to press on a spot he didn't even know about before she came along he's entirely lost.

He keeps his eyes closed as he catches his breath, feels her move up his body until she's laid out next to him, one of her legs over his and her hand on his chest. Feels the heat of her mouth against his neck, his jaw, his cheek before he turns his head and catches it with his own. Tastes himself on her tongue and feels the fire stir back to life deep in his belly.

He feels boneless, dreamy, and he's having trouble keeping up with her kisses but he slides his hand down her belly anyway, eager to reciprocate. She surprises him when she catches his hand, pulls it away and drapes it over her shoulder instead. He uses it to pull her closer and opens his eyes to see her brow furrowed in thought again.

"I thought Major Tom died," she says and he finds he can't really do anything but stare at her.

"In space," she clarifies, like that's going to help his orgasm-addled brain catch up.

"What?" he finally manages. She grins down at him and runs her hand through his hair.

"At the end of 'Space Oddity,' they can't contact him anymore, it's definitely _heavily_ implied that he goes drifting off into space and dies there. 'Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do,' right? But in this song he's a junkie, I guess because he went crazy in space? It doesn't make any sense."

He has to blink at her for a moment, has to register that the tape is now playing "Ashes to Ashes," has to realize that Nancy just offered him a close reading of two of his favorite songs from his favorite artist, has to remember to breathe past his heart, which has swelled a hundred times larger with absolutely blinding love for her.

"What, did I break you?" she laughs. "I'm not _that_ good."

He reaches for a pithy quip but what comes out of his mouth is, "I love you."

It _is_ awfully satisfying to reduce her to a series of stunned blinks, too.

"What?"

"I love you," he says again, and he always thought telling her – telling anyone – would leave him feeling exposed, but instead he can feel a weight inside of him lift.

He rolls them over, on top of her, between her legs, and kisses her hard before she can say anything back. Maybe he's done something horribly wrong. Maybe he's ruined this thing between them, moved too fast too soon too much. But by the way she's kissing him back, by the tug of her fingers in his hair, by the tightness of her legs locked around his lower back he doesn't think so.

"Jonathan—" she says, but he's on the move already, kissing down her chest, her stomach, throwing her legs over his shoulders and sliding off the edge of the bed to kneel on the floor before her. Tugs her to where he wants her, leans down to taste.

Her thighs clamp around his ears and dull his hearing until all there is is the bass and instruments, Bowie's band, and his pulse in his ears, and hers.

He takes her home and stops her at her front door before they go inside, before he has to greet her parents and fetch his little brother and break this spell that has him feeling scrubbed clean inside and new. When he pulls her to him her arms loop around his neck and she leans on him, heavy and languid, eyes half closed but still oh so big.

"What were you talking to Steve about earlier?" she asks, smiling up at him. He shakes his head.

"Nothing."

"Liar."

"Nothing important."

"It was about me, though, right?"

"It was about Valentine's Day and how there's nothing I can get you that's right, that means as much as you mean to me."

She blushes a little pinker and he tips his forehead against hers. "You don't have to get me anything."

"I wanted to."

"Well, don't. I'm telling you not to." It's her determined voice, the same one she uses when she wants to kill monsters or bring down the government, and it makes his world tilt under the weight of just how much he feels.

"I love you," he says once again and kisses her, slow and wet, before she can reply. When he pulls back she's blushing but glaring at him a little, like she's exasperated.

"Jonathan—"

Whatever she's about to say is cut off by the front door opening, by her mother's lilting voice.

"Nancy is that you—Oh!"

They spring apart and he wants to scream about it, but instead he ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck and tries to appear appropriately sheepish.

"Hi, Mrs. Wheeler."

"Hello Jonathan," she replies and gives him a smile that isn't too tight before turning and calling over her shoulder for his little brother. Nancy looks regretful as they step into the foyer, as Will's heavy footsteps grow louder as he grows closer.

"I have to go in early tomorrow to talk to Mrs. Roberts," she says, pursing her lips. "I'll see you in class, okay?"

"Okay," he agrees and manages to brush one more kiss onto her lips before Will is there, scooping up his backpack from the pile in the front hall.

"I talked to Mom," he brother says, already pulling on his arm and Nancy is giggling behind her hand and waving with exaggerated wistfulness as he's tugged out the door. "She said we can pick up food from Benny's for dinner on the way home."

"Mmhmm," he says, closing the door behind him. He still feels like he's in a haze as they walk to his car, Will chattering away. It's not until they're in it that his brother seems to notice.

"What's wrong with you? You're all spacey."

"Nothing's wrong."

"But—actually you know what, no. I don’t want to know. You and Nancy are _gross_. I just want a cheeseburger, okay? I want a cheeseburger and fries."

When he falls into bed that night his sheets still smell of her and his dreams are filled with her voice, and his, and the whisper of those three words across her skin.

+++

He doesn't pick her up the next morning but he also doesn't see her by his locker, which is weird and a little unsettling. Half the school is dressed in shades of red and pink and couples line the hallway, arms tucked tight around each other or pressed up against lockers.

He may be dressed in his customary dark colors, but he has to admit he feels a little hurt that Nancy's not there to indulge in the ridiculous adolescent hallway tradition with him.

He lingers by his locker, just in case, until the warning bell rings and he has to run to class.

Nancy is sitting at her desk when he gets there, looking unbothered and a little bored. He slides into his usual desk, parallel to hers but on the other side of the room, closer to the windows than the door, and gives her a look. She just winks.

The teacher talks but he doesn't listen, focuses more on doodling in the margins of his notebook paper than taking any real notes. He can feel Nancy's eyes on him from time to time but any time he meets her gaze she winks at him again.

Nancy winking is, frankly, unnerving.

It's about five minutes before the end of the period when the classroom door opens and the gaggle of girls clutching pink and red carnations enters. Their teacher gives up as they pass them out, and he tunes out the girls cooing and comparing the notes on the tags, focuses on the vanishing perspective road he's sketched out and the cactuses decorating the desert landscape around it.

He looks up when a shadow falls over his desk.

"Here," Nicole says to him. She holds out three carnations, bright red.

"What?"

"These are for you." She raises an eyebrow. "You gonna take 'em or do you want me to just drop them on your desk?"

He takes them slowly, and chances a glance at Nancy out of the corner of his eye. She's looking at him, intent.

The flowers are bound together by a pink ribbon with a heart-shaped tag hanging off it. He turns it over. Nancy's neat, small handwriting is unmistakable.

 _Let a girl finish a sentence for once,_ it says. _I love you too, you nerd._

He can feel how big and stupid his smile is, but he looks up anyway. Nancy is grinning back at him, just as big as his.

She's waiting for him just outside the door, grabs his hand and drags him down the hall to a small alcove between lockers.

"I love you," she says and presses up on her toes to kiss him. He holds her close, tries to ignore the whistles he hears behind him and focuses on the echo of her voice in her head.

He's breathing hard when he releases her but she's still up on her toes, forehead against his as she asks, "Wanna get out of here?"

+++

She gets grounded for skipping school.

He sneaks into her bedroom, gives her prisoner-themed mix tapes, and opens his heart wide to let her burrow deeper inside.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another small idea that got way out of hand. I can't seem to stop writing these two falling in love. I don't really want to stop, though, so I guess that's fine.
> 
> Title from Fleetwood Mac's "You Make Loving Fun."
> 
> This was not supposed to be a Valentine's Day fic, but I remembered at the last second that Valentine's Day does, in fact, happen in February and teenagers care about it _a lot_ , so it turned into one? Who am I.
> 
> Extra shout-out to The Cure, who released "The Head in the Door" 6 months too late for this story, and got me stuck for a week trying to write a scene that was _supposed_ to be about that album and had to be about something else and then got cut out entirely. If I ever run into you Robert Smith, I'm gonna fight you.


End file.
